


Time is gone, it stops who it wants

by palmyre



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, M/M, Modern Era, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palmyre/pseuds/palmyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two of the reincarnated Amis are drawn to each other without knowing about their past lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time is gone, it stops who it wants

\----

Grantaire had no memory of sleep or consciousness. He only knew the hot rush of blood down his back.

Paralyzed with agony, he couldn’t even gasp for breath. There were holes in him. He could feel them — gaping, burning, vicious. He was shredded apart; his guts spilled out. All he could think was  _FUCK I’VE BEEN HIT_ . The pain was savage fire all over and his mind was like ice.

Someone sobbed near him. This was it, Grantaire thought in a wild panic. He was dying. Already he was being mourned. Deep black lapped at his eyes until the notion of death was sweet, motherly comfort. The crying shrank to trembling little gasps and Grantaire welcomed the embrace of silence. Why had he ever feared death? There was nothing but the balm of relief here, and the dying embers of pride and love -- here, he stood with Enjolras.

Grantaire’s eyes snapped open. His bedroom was dark. 

_Who the_ fuck _was Enjolras?_

Barely had Grantaire finished the thought before he remembered everything.

The searing pain in his abdomen shot straight to his head. Gulping for air, Grantaire struggled to sit up. The blankets and sheets twisted around him like ropes. He clutched at his head and tried to brace his throat against nausea. He was reeling like he’d been thrown off a cliff.

A blitz of images, sounds, and smells rocked Grantaire’s mind. The strain built up behind his eyes until it felt like his skull would crack open right down the middle. Grantaire whined, Grantaire wept; dimly, he recognized a hand consolingly rubbing up and down his back. He latched onto the feeling until it became his anchor and his harbor. 

The gentle, sweeping caress brought him back down until Grantaire could open his eyes against streaming tears and finally, fucking finally just breathe. 

Shaking, Grantaire turned and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Combeferre lay beside him in bed, looking just as overcome. His eyes were red and wet. 

They were also afraid. 

Grantaire’s nausea sidelined him. He slammed a hand against his mouth, taking deep shuddering breaths through his nose until it stopped. It had been like seeing double! 

When he looked at Combeferre, he saw in distress the man he loved. His every instinct wanted to comfort the partner he’d shared with the last five years of their lives.

Grantaire also saw the capable man who had stood at Enjolras’s side as his constant companion during the revolution.

“You,” Combeferre said, croaking. “You remember?” 

Grantaire barely grabbed the wastebasket before he threw up. 

His second year of university, Grantaire found an apartment off-campus and put up an ad for a roommate. After listening to him rail for a whole hour about the  frankly disturbed crop of candidates, one of Grantaire’s bar-crawling friends gave him Combeferre’s number. 

“Nice guy,” she’d said. “Studious. Now shut the fuck up and let us drink in peace.”

So Grantaire called him up in the morning (“late afternoon”, his mother would have said), and they arranged for an interview. 

There weren’t any fireworks or  shoujo manga bubbles (shut up, he was an art student okay?). Not even that many sparks, when they first shook hands and plastered on polite smiles for each other. Grantaire maybe had a fleeting thought about Combeferre’s warm eyes behind those glasses; but that period in his life was all about frantically working up an attraction to women, so he’d shoved it violently into the darkest cavity of his mind.  Presto, hetero.

The interview was amiable, cordial, and pleasant. Well, no,  Combeferre  was all those things. He’d crossed his legs at the ankles and had a nice, wryly humorous twist to his mouth. Grantaire had slouched and probably looked like freshly microwaved dog shit. 

So obviously it would have been completely asinine not to let Combeferre have the room. 

They courteously stayed out of the other’s way for the first month or so. Grantaire would lock himself in his bedroom and gulp down drinks in the dark. Combeferre kept his comprehensive collection of books from consuming their apartment (although it had quickly taken out the living room. RIP). They exchanged small talk when circumstances forced them together, and it seemed as if that was how their relationship would remain.

One day (and Grantaire  still smirked when he remembered, and then Combeferre would glance at him and just  know  what he was thinking and look down to smile at himself),  they were both in the living room, trying to navigate a path around the columns of books. Grantaire had almost made it to the armchair when he’d stumbled, bumped his shin against the coffee table, and sent one of Combeferre’s folders flying to the floor. All the papers within scattered across the hardwood. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” Grantaire said. He quickly scrambled after them while Combeferre protested that it was fine. “No, no, it was my fault, let me just… ”

He stared at the paper in his hand. It was a detailed ink drawing of a bug. It wasn’t the most striking piece of work that R had seen, in his professional opinion (ha ha), but he had to admire the elegance and adroit hand in the design. 

“It’s the  Anatis ocellata ,” Combeferre said. Grantaire looked at him, and there was some color high in his cheeks. Was he embarrassed? Nervous? 

“Of course it is,” Grantaire said. “I usually call them ladybugs though.”

Combeferre’s lips quirked ruefully. “I’ve never shown any of my drawings to an artist before. It’s something I do for my own reference. It’s not the most charming of hobbies, I suppose, but I’ve always – since childhood –”

“Nah, I like it,” said Grantaire. And he did. Although his admiration was more about discovering something so personal to Combeferre, who he privately imagined was a cyborg manufactured in an underground S.H.I.E.L.D laboratory, and less about bug art. Not that it wasn’t the best ladybug drawing he’d ever seen, of course. “You have a lot of these?”

“Just a few sketches,” Combeferre hedged. Grantaire wondered if he went into Combeferre’s room right now, he’d find himself surrounded by pages and pages of ladybugs, dung beetles, and bees. It was always the quiet ones.

Grantaire graciously tucked Madame Ladybug back into her folder.

“You’re a man of hidden depths, Monsieur Combeferre,” he said, handing it back to him. 

Combeferre laughed. “Not so hidden! You just.”

He broke off abruptly. 

They stared at each other for a few uncomfortable seconds. Grantaire could finish Combeferre’s sentence in his head: “ You just don’t know a thing about me. ”

Grantaire felt a lurching, familiar rush of shame, self-hatred, and nausea. How could you live with another human being for six weeks and barely know who they were? He knew Combeferre’s name. He knew his major and where he went to school. He knew that his hoard of tomes was going to rampage the city à la Godzilla one day, but he knew nothing about Combeferre the man. 

“I meant to say,” Combeferre said, clearing his throat lightly, “that we’ve both been remiss in getting to know each other.”

“You shouldn’t force yourself to get along with me just because we live together,” Grantaire mumbled. He swore silently at himself.  Live together.  He couldn’t have just said they were roommates? Christ.

Combeferre shook his head. “I wouldn’t be forcing myself. I’m… I am ashamed of how I behaved this past month. Like a rude, misanthropic recluse. I like to think of myself as someone who cares about people. I take pride in making connections.”

Grantaire scowled. Reflexively, he combed his busy curls into his face. What a childish habit. “I’m not some project or charity figure,” he couldn’t help but snap. 

Let’s make friends with poor R! He looks so lonely and pathetic. I bet we’ll be such saints if we fixed him! Feed him enough love and empty platitudes and his alcoholism will vanish like magic!

“That’s not what I intended to say. I’m sorry if it sounded too clinical. I meant that I have always enjoyed getting to know people. I especially would like to get to know you, Grantaire,” said Combeferre. There wasn’t any artificialness in his manner. He looked earnest, somewhat bashful, and serious. As if this was all worth something to him. It made Grantaire uncomfortable. 

“No one calls me that,” he chose to say instead of the million other insecurities feasting away at him. “Call me R.” 

“R,” Combeferre acknowledged. He seemed to puzzle it over for a bit before breaking into a smile. “Because of your surname.”

Grantaire held up a finger. Got it in one. 

Combeferre opened his mouth, hesitated, and then visibly regained the resolve to keep going. “I never liked my name. Unfortunately, ‘Simon’ doesn’t easily lend itself to nicknames.” 

Grantaire felt lighter, almost relieved. “It doesn’t really suit you,” he said. Was that going too far? He just knew that ‘Simon’ didn’t fit the man sitting before him. It was like an ill-suited jacket; someone trying to pull off an awkward sense of style as valiantly as they could, but unable to fool the careful eye. 

Just like with him. 

“Nevertheless, that is what I’m stuck with,” Combeferre said. He tossed his folder of drawings back onto the coffee table. “We both have a class at 1 PM tomorrow. Would you like to get lunch before then?” 

Lunch with Combeferre. Something selfish and hopeful inside Grantaire thrilled at the thought. The more viciously rational part of him hissed that it was recipe for disaster. If not tomorrow, then the day after; if not then, then the next day, week, month. How much longer could someone like Combeferre bear to look at him and be in his company? He repulsed people. He imagined the stink of self-disgust and cynicism rolling off him like fumes, driving others away. 

“I promise I won’t bore you with more weird insect art,” said Combeferre with a dry grin. 

Grantaire’s laughter exploded out of him in an embarrassing snort. “Yeah, okay, if you’re gonna  promise !”

**  
**

Lunch the next day was indeed entomologically-free, and it was… Grantaire had a way with words, sometimes. But all he could come up with for lunch with Combeferre was ‘nice’. Really, really nice. 

He knew now, a little bit, what Combeferre had meant about enjoying connections. He was one of the warmest guys Grantaire had ever met. He practically radiated goodwill. It was kind of like sitting in front of the fireplace with your family on Christmas Eve back when you were a kid. A really long time ago. 

Their burgeoning friendship didn’t start and end with a quick coffee and sandwich break between classes. They started sharing all their meals together. Sometimes their schedules didn’t line up, but before long, Grantaire and Combeferre began making an effort to see that they did. 

Sometimes Grantaire loitered outside one of Combeferre’s many, many seminars (one on  hypnotism ? Seriously?) Combeferre discussed them with him, as they walked home afterwards, and Grantaire could sense he was trying to draw him out by conversation. Infuriatingly enough, it worked. 

Sometimes Combeferre would sit in on a stick fighting practice and even comment on Grantaire’s technique. How did he know so much about everything? Talk about a Renaissance Man, for fucking sake. When he found out Grantaire also took contemporary dance, he didn’t laugh or look remotely amused at his expense.

“Let me know when your next practice is,” he’d said simply.

Grantaire did.

They always went home with each other. 

Until they didn’t.

Grantaire had felt sort of united with Combeferre in that neither of them got laid all that much. Grantaire was no saint; he fooled around with women in dirty bathrooms and empty classrooms when he could. Every encounter, however, gave strength to the lingering dark thoughts in his brain. Like ink and poison, they seeped into him until his shame and self-hatred grew and grew. Some days it rose in his throat until he could hardly speak for fear of vomiting; some days he couldn’t look Combeferre in the eye without humiliation. 

Grantaire didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to consider it. He knew he was loathsome and had more vices than most people had debt. But he couldn’t stand being  so wrong . Why did he have to be THAT wrong? Why couldn’t just one part of him be normal? His drinking problem, overpowering as it may be, had started when he chose to pick up the first bottle. He hadn’t chosen  this .

Occasionally, at the bar, strange men would catch his eye and hold the gaze for a little too long. Could they sense it within Grantaire? Figured. Maybe everyone could see it. Maybe Combeferre saw it too.

Combeferre wouldn’t hate him if he knew. Grantaire was aware of that. Except he couldn’t help feeling that yes, Combeferre would, and everything would change.

But if there was one thing Grantaire was good at, it was not believing. He had made an art out of not caring. He could bury and crush and submerge his emotions like a professional. Just get him a bottle and he’d be started before you know it.

He was going to need  a lot  of drink to bury this, though.

Grantaire had come home alone that evening. He couldn’t remember the reason anymore. Combeferre had been in the living room, on the couch along with a friend. He’d interrupted an intense conversation, if he went by their heads bowed so close together. 

Combeferre looked up first, while his friend twisted to glance over his shoulder. Combeferre smiled widely.

“R, good, you’re home. This is Julien from my philosophy class.” 

Julien and Grantaire exchanged stilted greetings and the second he got the opportunity, Grantaire broke free and escaped to his room. He could hear the murmurings of pleasant and occasionally exuberant conversation through the door.  When there was a lull in the muffled chatter, he didn’t really notice until it stretched from a lull to an uncomfortably long moment.

And he  knew . It made him get up from the bed, crack his bedroom open so he could peer out, and stare at those two heads bowed closer than before until, like a magic eye picture, it all sprang into place. His stomach reeled. 

“Fuuuck,” Grantaire whispered, and he couldn’t help but chuckle darkly. Of course. How was he even surprised? 

He could hear the soft, slick noises of measured kissing now. Gritting his teeth, Grantaire closed the door as quietly as possible. So naturally it creaked loud enough to wake Marie Antoinette in the Basilica. 

When he heard some concerned sounds and then the front door closing, Grantaire lay miserably in bed and waited for Combeferre to show up.

He did, within seconds. “R.”

Grantaire sighed. “Combeferre.”

There was a pregnant, thoughtful pause. “I’m assuming you saw us,” Combeferre said. He sounded carefully nonchalant.

“You always did know everything,” Grantaire replied. Falling back on sarcasm: always a failsafe. 

It was Combeferre’s turn to sigh. “Could you please remove the pillow from your face so we can at least understand each other?” 

Oh. He  did  have a pillow over his face, didn’t he? When had he done that? Grantaire tried to summon up the appropriate embarrassment but was too consumed with self-disgust. He threw the pillow aside before he used it to suffocate himself and upset Combeferre.

When he looked at Combeferre, it gave him a wretched jolt to see his grave countenance.  I know , Combeferre would say.  I know what’s in your heart. I can see it plain as day. It makes me sick. I want to dissect you like a bug and find out what’s wrong with you.

“I shouldn’t have—” Grantaire started to say hastily, right as Combeferre spoke up. With a resigned wave he let Combeferre take the moment.

Combeferre rubbed his mouth ruefully. “I should have told you I was queer. I’m sorry.”

Grantaire choked on his spit a little. He just  said  it like it was nothing! “I—you—since when?” he croaked.

“Er, since I can remember. Although I became more aware of it in my early teens.”

Grantaire couldn’t pull away from the sincere, steady gaze. The candid gentleness of Combeferre’s eyes often struck him right in the meat and bones. There had never been anyone who inspired self-worth and affection in Grantaire like this. He wasn’t sure if he liked that; the bleak lowness was safer, more familiar.

His breath shuddered out. “Would you change it if you could?”

Combeferre frowns. “Change what, exactly?” he asked slowly, as if he suspected he knew already.

“Do you think you could be a better person if you weren’t gay?” Grantaire instinctually touched his stomach. He felt pretty stupid for asking. Nothing about Combeferre was wrong. Like Grantaire, he also didn’t assimilate into the universe (both of them were just... askew. He sensed it), but Combeferre was a kind person. Everything about him was touched with goodness. He could kill someone and it would be for a reason so selfless and altruistic that the entire world would elevate him to sainthood. 

“I don’t think my sexuality in and of itself affects how good or bad a person I am,” said Combeferre. “Do you think yours affects who you are?”

He didn’t sound aloof or condescending, like, that’s right homophobic straightie let me turn things around on you with my crushing, dry wit. He just sounded... knowing. 

Grantaire laughed and it sounded like the time he’d shattered that clay vase. “I don’t want to be gay,” he pleaded.

“Ignorant people can make you feel as if it’s wrong to be so. They are incorrect.”

Even Combeferre’s firm tone couldn’t make it through the haze of panic and denial clouding his brain. 

“I just wanted one thing in my life to be okay,” Grantaire whispered. “I just wanted one part of me to be... right.”

There was no hesitation when Combeferre took his hand. It made his heart jump but he forced himself to stay still. He looked down at their clasped hands; Combeferre had neat nails. Trimmed, square, clean. Grantaire curled his fingers into a fist.

“You’re a good man, R,” said Combeferre. “There is no part of you that needs to be fixed or corrected to make you worthy of respect and kindness. Being gay is not a defect.”

Grantaire snorted. “So now you’re going to tell me I’m perfect so I don’t spend the night drinking my feelings.” So he could sleep easy knowing he wasn’t responsible for Grantaire doing something foolish like chase whiskey with a bottle of pills. As if he would, Grantaire thought morosely. Suicide terrified him.

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “Perfection is a ridiculous concept to attach to human beings,” he said. 

As the bleakness started to fade, Grantaire felt less pathetic and more embarrassed. With a desperate shot at saving face, he grinned and said, “Well, what the hell am I supposed to strive towards now?” 

“Your own contentment,” said Combeferre simply. 

Grantaire would be sure to pencil that in after his flower-arrangement class. CONTNTMNT, HPPINESS, ETC: MON. 5:00 PM. URGENT!!

He wondered what time frame Combeferre would be willing to give him. Would he be patient for a month? Begin biting back aggravated comments after two? Give up on him before the year was out? 

Combeferre wasn’t done. “But no matter how you feel, you should know... I am here. Whenever you need me, whether it be to distract you or listen to you, I’ll be there. You have been a good friend to me, R, and I want to help you in any way I can.” 

Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, I should get a certificate or something.” 

“I’m serious,” said Combeferre, smiling. “I’m often at the fringes of relationships. I find it hard to fit in. It is inexplicable to me. For all that I love my family and friends, I have always felt distant from them. There is something about me that cannot reconcile itself to society.

“With you, however...” Combeferre hesitated. “I’m grounded. The world doesn’t seem like a painting I’m observing from the outside. I feel like I am a part of something I’ve been waiting a long time for. I... I’m humiliating myself, aren’t I?” 

Combeferre tried to laugh it off, but Grantaire couldn’t let him ignore it. 

“I know exactly what you mean,” he blurted. “I -- I’ve always felt like that too. Seriously. For as long as I can remember.”

Before, he'd had an agonizing time looking Combeferre in the eye. Now Grantaire couldn't tear himself away. Every angle, feature, and line of that thoughtful face was magnetic. Grantaire had never been sure of anything, had in fact violently attempted to detach himself from everything, but at this moment he would happily have spent the rest of his life finding comfort in Combeferre. 

"Then it seems we've both discovered a kindred spirit." Combeferre beamed, and Grantaire felt. Grantaire felt pretty okay. 


End file.
